by Chris Lynch
“Where?” she says.
“Not sure, exactly,” I say, though I am a little sure. My insides have shifted into an entirely different realm as I contemplate the romance of running away.
And I do realize that if Junie could hear my thoughts, I would not have gotten past the word “romance” without a clap across the ear. Still, I persevere.
“Just a place, a hotel, like, to get away for a night. Or maybe two—”
“Ah, two?” she says.
“Go, O!” Maxie cheers.
“Quiet, you,” Junie says.
“Fine, but I won’t be quiet for long, because this sounds like a superb offer you’re getting. And if you’re silly enough to pass . . . Well, let me just say that one of us will be keeping this lovely gentleman company.”
My body shoots through, toes to top hat, with adrenaline or testosterone, or whatever combination my inner chemist has just produced, but my foolish head is spinning with that talk, and the rest of my parts are about to join it.
But that’s not even the best part. The best part is Junie Blue’s reaction to the provocation.
She looks at her sister with eyes narrowed and sideways. Her nostrils flare. Her lips pull in, tight and hard.
That bothered her.
And I am delighted beyond words at this. It is a mighty effort to fight down a gigantic smile, until she finally says the two most romantic words, “I suppose,” and I need to fight no more.
She throws a few things into a bag, and Maxine goes over to where the framed portraits are leaning, wrapped in their brown-paper protection.
“And you guys can slip out while I create the perfect diversion with the presentation of the birthday gifts.”
“When is his birthday?” I ask.
“Today,” she says matter-of-factly as she tears the wrapping off one.
“Really? No offense, but it doesn’t appear very birthday-like,” I say.
“Hey,” Max laughs. “I said there was tequila.”
Then her laughter abruptly stops. With Junie standing behind her now, she takes in the vision of their mother, in the vision of my mother.
“My God,” Maxie says.
“O,” Junie says, covering her mouth with her hand and talking through it. “That’s exquisite. I mean . . .”
“That’s Leona,” Max says. “That is her. That is every bit of her.”
“Your mother is a genius,” Junie says.
“According to my mom, Leona did all the work,” I say.
Maxine then turns to the companion portrait, tears the wrapping off.
There is a pause of maybe four seconds. Then critical appraisal.
“Bwaaa-haa-haa-haa.” Maxine is genuinely, heartily convulsed with laughter. “Perfect,” she gasps. “My God, you can practically smell the sulfur coming off him.”
Junie is squeezing my arm now. She is not laughing as uproariously as her sister is, but there is a deeply satisfied gigantic grin lighting her up. “I’ll say it again, your mom is a genius.”
“Hurry up now,” Max says, gathering up the portraits. “I can’t wait a minute longer to unveil these.”
“Yeah,” Junie says, “and I seriously believe we will want to be gone when that moment arrives.”
The three of us slip down the stairs quietly. Then Junie and I split off for the front door while Max, giggling, heads for the sounds of cracking ice and growling in the kitchen.
“Heeyy, birthday boy,” I hear her say just as we close the door, and I marvel at her fearlessness.
We get out to the car, and I start it up and put it in gear. Junie has just rolled down her window to let in the warm evening air and freedom she is clearly experiencing for this moment.
Then suddenly a smash, and we see a chunky oak frame come flying out the front window, bouncing to a rest flat on the lawn.
We share a loud, nervous but hearty laugh as we peel out to the sound of Ronny’s incredulous, “What the hell is this? Huh? Funny? This is funny, maybe?”
He appears to be addressing the portrait itself, through the shattered window, demanding that it respond.
Seven
My selfish and immature mind has managed to transcend all of the unpleasant realities of the current state of things, to the point where I am nearly euphoric as I navigate my mother’s car through the local streets, out to the parkway, and head into the city. I am thrilled to be in Junie’s company for an extended period of time. I am thrilled to be tooling around on an ideal summer night with a lovely girl in the passenger seat for all the world to see, even if it appears nobody but me is seeing it.
And, God help me, I am thrilled to be playing the part of the shining knight I have been so aching to be for her.
Let’s hear it for selfish immaturity.
Junie has relaxed to the point of semiconsciousness, as the breeze does mad whippy things to her hair and the singer on the radio encourages us to meet him tonight in Atlantic City. I could. I could just about continue on, to Atlantic City or wherever else Junie and I could find the adventure of our lives.
Another day, maybe.
“Where are we?” she asks without opening her eyes.
“We’re here.”
“We’re here?” she asks, a playful smile coming across her lips while her eyes remain closed. “But we were already at here. We’re always here. I thought we were supposed to be headed for there?”
I lean over and say right into her ear. “We are headed there. We’re headed here, there, and everywhere, don’t you worry. But right now I need to head inside and see if they have got a room for us. Want to wait while I check?”
“Yes,” she says.
I breathe in a little more of her before I exit the vehicle and enter the hotel.
The hotel, one of the newer ones in the old city, sits in a spectacular spot between the redeveloped waterfront and the financial district. Every room has views over either the harbor or the heart of the city. It’s half a block from my dad’s office, which is how I learned about the place. He’s been to a number of fancy functions here, and always comes home raving about every detail. On a few occasions Dad’s company has sprung for a little holiday here for a business associate who Dad considers a VIP, and whose money he would like to get his hands on.
“If you ever want to impress a girl, Son, this is the place for it,” he has said more than once.
Well, I really want to impress a girl.
Although there is an element of risk involved, as this brings into play a contentious issue between the very girl and myself.
“Of course, Mr. O’Brien. We have a room available,” the very nice French man at the front desk says when I produce the credit card that looks like it is made of semiprecious metal. Okay, precious.
Junie loathes this card.
It is, of course, sponsored by my father. It will continue to be sponsored by my father until summer’s end, at which time I will be required to make a decision of some kind, either winding up in school or working and paying my own bills. The truth is, I don’t even know what the card’s limit is, if it even has one, but everyone knows I would not be the type to take advantage of the arrangement. I have made every attempt to keep the thing tucked securely in its wallet parking space. In fact, even though I used it only rarely, as a high school credit card it would be fair to say it was overkill.
Which is just what Junie would have liked to do to it.
This, surely, would have to qualify as a reasonable exception.
“Would you prefer a city-side or harbor-view room?” the nice gentleman asks.
I am about to answer when a mini-paralysis hits. I don’t want to get even the slightest thing wrong here, and I could see Junie picking either one. Only, if I pick one, her pick would without a doubt wind up being the other.
“Can you hold on just a second?”
“Certainly,” he says.
I quick-step across the lobby, then run the rest of the way to where the car is parked at a metered, unpaid spot. Junie
is sound asleep until I tap on the window. Slowly she comes to, rubbing her eyes, looking around confusedly. Then she seems to have some recollection of who I am, and rolls down the window.
“If you had your choice . . . which you do . . . would you prefer a city-side view or a harbor-side view?”
Clarity is coming to her quickly now, possibly too quickly. She starts looking past me, behind me, then up. And up, and up.
“That?” she says, pointing at the glistening glass of the hotel.
“Yeah,” I say.
She rolls up the window again. “I’m gonna sleep in the car.”
She closes her eyes, and I start rapping on the window. “What?” she says after she’s opened the window again.
“Come on. They have a nice room for us, and—”
“Oh, O, I couldn’t. I just . . . Oh, I couldn’t.” She is looking up at the beautiful building as if it were Godzilla thundering toward us.
I reach into the car and take her hand. I try to make my begging as dignified as possible, but if that doesn’t work, I am more than prepared to go the other way with it.
“Please, Junie? Listen, I know how you feel, and I respect that. You don’t like flash, and you don’t like fancy, and you don’t like fuss. . . .” My voice trails off, and I am left hanging there wondering if I ever had a finish to that thought prepared in the first place.
She waits. “Yeah, and so . . .”
“And so . . .” I feel like I’m just going to burst, and God knows what will come out of me then, so in a panic I try to supply words instead. “And so . . . I want you just this once to let me make a fancy flash fuss over you, Junie Blue. That’s it. That’s the truth, and beyond that, I got nothing. So please, please let me just do that?”
She looks up at the imposing building again, down at me, up at the building.
“I don’t know about this, O, I really don’t.”
Finally inspiration comes riding in.
“What would Ronny think?”
She splutters an immediate and messy laugh. “You kiddin’ me? He’d pee himself with envy and spite and—”
I lean way in toward her, hoping to achieve a winning combination of conspiratorially and intimately breathy. “Happy birthday, Ronny.”
It may not be that my gambit was all that clever, and it may be that the prospect of more pleading was too much to bear, or maybe she just finally needed a bed, but when I open the door gallantly for her, she graciously steps out.
I try to take her bag, but she pulls it roughly away. “Don’t get carried away now, Lancelot.”
Yeah,” I say, very excited, trying not to seem very excited. “Sorry. What was I thinking, huh?”
“Harbor-side,” she says as we walk up to the entrance.
“Great,” I say.
The doorman opens the door for us, and I feel Junie be uncharacteristically reticent, ever-so-lightly sort of clinging to me, two bunches of my shirt in her fists.
“If you’d like to give me the keys, Mr. O’Brien, I’ll be glad to have your car parked in our garage.”
Okay, now even I am a little jolted. We’re not even checked in, and it’s like I’m a regular.
“Well,” I say, “sure. Great, thanks.” I slap the keys and a bill into his palm, and he thanks me kindly, ushers us through, and says, “Have a pleasant stay, Mr. O’Brien.” Then the kicker. “Mrs. O’Brien,” he adds with a gallant small bow.
Halfway between the door and the desk Junie asks, “They know you? How the hell do they know you?”
I do not mean to lie, but how can you not enjoy the moment when the moment may well be the finest one of your life? “Oh, didn’t you know about me? Oh, babe, I get this everywhere. There’s plenty more where that came from, trust me.”
Still hanging on to my shirt, she whispers hard into my ear, “There better not be.”
“Ah, Mr. O’Brien,” the reception man says. I start to turn my head to make more of that moment, but she gives me that pinch in the back, the little nip with just the fingernails that has the force of twenty horseflies.
“Ah-hah,” I say involuntarily.
“I see you have brought in the consultant on the city-side–harbor-side question. Excellent. And the verdict is . . .”
“Harbor-side, my good man.”
“Room 1424,” he says, sliding across a form for my signature, along with two key cards and my credit card.
“Oh, that thing,” Junie whispers coldly as I sign and take the stuff away.
“You were prepared for our decision,” I say to the man, impressed.
“Oh, yes, sir. I knew you’d be harbor-side before you were halfway across the lobby. Have a very pleasant stay, folks.”
“Thank you very much,” I say, and as I turn from the desk toward the bank of elevators, I work my right hand up my back and just manage to reach one of Junie’s fists. I forcibly convince that fist to engage with my hand rather than my shirt, and I am feeling pretty good as we get onto the elevator hand in hand. The mirrored back wall of the elevator confirms my good feeling.
“Now will you try to relax a bit, Mrs. O’Brien?”
“Fourteen floors is a long way down, Mr. O’Brien,” she says, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t mean it. In fact, I’m pretty sure I feel her squeeze my hand a little harder.
We get off, follow the signage to 1424, and it is with great anticipation that I am poised with the key card to open the door.
“O,” she says, tugging me slightly back from the door.
“What’s up, Junie?”
She is looking down at her feet, then up at the high ceiling and each way down the endless corridor.
“Don’t laugh at me.”
I cannot even imagine where that thought came from. But it is the easiest response I’ve had to formulate today.
“Don’t be absurd,” I say, perhaps running a bit low on romantic language, but my delivery, I am sure, said what I meant.
“I’ve never stayed in a hotel before in my life,” she says.
It’s the kind of thing you don’t think about. Or at least I don’t. Not that I’ve been in a million hotels myself, but I’ve been in a few—on family holidays, a couple of short business trips with Dad a long time ago. But it just seems kind of automatic, to think of this experience as part of everybody’s experience, to think of it as not that big a deal, and it makes Junie, for these few seconds, feel just that little bit foreign to me.
And she clearly thinks of this as a big-deal issue.
“Okay, so what?” I say to her as she actually takes another step back from our hotel room door, and I fear a terrible regression.
“I feel so stupid,” she says.
“No,” I plead, rushing to fill the space between us. “No, no, no, no, Junie. My God, no.”
I attempt to give her a comforting hug, but with her bag hanging off her shoulder and her arms folded mightily in front of her, it’s like comforting a little vending machine.
“I feel so wrong here, O.”
“Trust me. Would you trust me? It’s nothing special. Once we get inside, that’s just, y’know, our room. No big deal. Right?”
The vending machine reluctantly and quietly says, “Right.”
In an effort to build on that momentum, I turn and rush to the door, pulling Junie behind me by her belt, inserting the key card into the lock with the other hand. The lock pops, I push open the door, and we are in. I usher Junie farther into the room, then hurry to close the door behind us.
“Oh, for Christsake,” Junie snaps.
I step up behind her and take in what she’s taking in. The room.
“Oh,” I say. “Oh. Well, um. Oh.”
“For Christsake,” she says.
“Listen, just don’t look at it. You’re very tired, so maybe you should just, maybe, just go straight to bed. . . .”
She turns, toward the bed.
“Oh, for Christsake.”
It’s a pretty nice bed. The duvet is as thick as my mattress a
t home. I estimate it’s a king-and-a-half size. The layout of the room they have given us is quite something. That huge bed is the centerpiece, with the footboard facing the massive curtained window on one side. Above and beyond the headboard are what look like a pair of Japanese-style sliding windows with semi-opaque greenish sea-glass-looking panels in them. The windows reach from the top of the headboard almost up to the ceiling. Soft light glows from the other side of the panels, a light that is clearly telling Junie Blue to come to it. She drops her bag, jumps up, and walks across the bed to those sliders like an old movie detective who says, All right. I know you’re in there.
“Oh, for—”
That would be the bathroom. She stands there up on the bed, the bedroom now open to the gleaming huge bathroom, the whole place open, really from the shower stall right on through to the window wall. If one sat on that Japanese windowsill—and one has every intention of doing just that before we leave here—you could look down on one side right onto the bed, and down on the other side, right onto the bathtub. You could also see just about every other corner of the place from that perch, not to mention the views out across the harbor beyond, but probably that bed-bath axis would be enough to keep me occupied.
She stares at me, all bug-eyed and accusatory.
“The room has nice flow, huh?” is my surrender line.
But she’s not through. She marches the quarter mile from the pillows to the foot of the bed, hops right down, and makes a dash for the curtains before I can even slow her down. She whips the curtain back—runs it all the way, actually, from left to right until all is revealed.
And all is quite something. My parents gave me a helicopter trip over the city as part of my thirteenth birthday, and I don’t recall the view of the harbor being as good as this one. And the night is clear and perfect, illuminating all the boats. It’s almost making me mad, now, how relentless this fabulosity is.
“What did they do, bring in extra friggin’ sparkly boats and stars just for us?” I say.
She is staring now, speechless. I stand right behind her, with about six inches of buffer air between us, as I do not dare to make contact.
I know that at any other time, under any other circumstances, I would see the same magnificence here that most people see.